by Alice Landrum “Mr. Bloom and Stephen entered the cabman’s shelter, an unpretentious wooden structure, where, prior to then, he had rarely, if ever, been before; the former having previously whispered to the latter a few hints anent the keeper of it, said to be the once famous Skin-the-Goat, Fitzharris,…
by Tayler Tucker From his lips billowed wisps of smoke, curling upwards enshrouding the hollow sockets where eyes should have been, cycling in a perpetual dance. His visage bore a labyrinth of wrinkles etched deep into his blueish foggy skin. God only knew where those ‘eyes’ led. His hair hung…
by Joan Mazza On this cold December morning when the firein the woodstove keeps dying, I think of dragonsand their shape, how one could appear at any time with breath that would astound me. I amble downthe stairs to feed the beast another log, to fusswith embers, twigs, and another…